


I Knew You Once

by TheLollipopKing (orphan_account)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Amnesia Sherlock, But I thought I should tag it, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Only very little, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Set sort of in A Scandal in Belgravia, Sherlock Holmes and Drug Use, Sherlock-centric, Slow Burn, Trans Sherlock, Transphobia, Work In Progress
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-22
Updated: 2017-01-31
Packaged: 2018-09-18 20:18:40
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,482
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9401357
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/TheLollipopKing
Summary: "Your name is William Sherlock Scott Holmes. It's unclear how much you will remember each morning."Amnesia is just another challenge.





	1. Awakening

**Author's Note:**

> I've had this idea stuck in my head for so long now, so here it is!
> 
> Disclaimer: I am not transgender, nor do I have amnesia, so most of my research has been done through friends and online. If I get any facts wrong, please tell me in the comments so I can correct it.
> 
> (Side note, I was listening to I Knew You Once by Dodie Clark while writing this, and it's also what inspired me to write this. Please check it out if you feel like crying today, or if you just want some context.)

Amnesia is just another challenge.

That's the way that Sherlock sees it. A puzzle for him to solve, a case to crack, a riddle to untangle. Of course, Mycroft has always seen it differently - _"It's just a nuisance, Sherlock, why would you possibly want to keep it?"_ \- but then, when has Mycroft's opinion ever mattered? It adds some determination to his cases after all; wanting to finish the case completely before sleep takes over, his brain inevitably flushing out everything he's ever learnt since he was 19.

The only part that's somewhat unmanageable is the grip of terror that resonates in his chest each morning. Waking up somewhere he doesn't recognise, with no knowledge of how he got there, and a complete blank on any rational thought. Most days, even contemplating the idea of reliving that first morning is enough to keep Sherlock awake for days on end, keeping his mind occupied with composing, or small experiments he's always been meaning to try (which he's delighted to find he has most of the equipment for, until he realises yet again that he's done the experiment several times before).

This morning is no different.

The smell is wrong, the air is wrong, the bed is too comfortable and the lights outside are too bright and his heart is beating wildly out of his chest and there's something wrong but he doesn't know  _what._

_Breathe. Take it in. Concentrate._

A small room, most likely down the hall from the kitchen, judging by the smell of cooking - homely, someone definitely lives here. A very different atmosphere from the university he's so used to.

As he sits up from his bed, his eyes fall naturally on a little post-it note on his wall.

_In my eyes, the life, lies drawer and cupboard, lies truth in a life long book. Will you Read or Resurrect it._

Sherlock's handwriting, not that he remembers writing it. No notion to proper punctuation or grammar, but it wasn't written in a hurry. He's never fancied abstract poetry either. He left himself a message then, but he wanted it hidden. He's not alone, although he knew that from the smell wafting in from the kitchen. No immediate danger, hopefully. A skip code. First word then every third.

_In my eyes,  the life, lies drawer and cupboard, lies truth in a life long book. Will you Read or Resurrect it._

_In the drawer lies a book. Read it_

Sherlock looks in the side drawer, pulling out a small notepad with paper sticking out the edges. He opens it to the first page.

_Don't panic._

Sherlock tries not to scoff at it. Him, panic? Then again, he did write it.

_BASICS_

_Your name is William (See Transition) Sherlock Scott Holmes_

_Birthday: 9th January 1976._

_It's unclear how much you will remember each morning. Amnesia as a result of abnormalities in the limbic system of the brain._

_Your address is 221B Baker Street._

_Your flatmate is called John Watson, and he is your friend. You can make your own deductions, but there is more detail on him later on._

_Your landlady is Mrs Hudson. Make sure you treat her with respect and decency, as it is the least she deserves._

_Your brother is called Mycroft. Annoying. Don't bother with him. He knows you have amnesia and will pester you about ways to fix it. You don't want that._

_You are a consulting detective at Scotland Yard. A man called ~~Geoff~~  _ _~~Gary~~ ~~Graham~~ Lestrade will come by sometimes to ask you to solve some of their cases. Only take the ones you want._

_The woman who works at the mortuary (St Bart's Hospital) is called Molly Hooper._

_Scotland Yard are all idiots. Don't be surprised by it._

_IMPORTANT:_

_Moriarty is a name that should be feared, and when in doubt, talk to Mycroft about necessary information._

_Skip to last entry for current events._

He does so.

_John is mad because you left an experiment on rat's intestines on the same shelf as the bacon. Approach with caution and keep in mind any normal signs of anger. Maybe make the coffee this morning to cheer him up._

_Ask Lestrade for new cases. Check John's blog for the latest case._

_The Woman (See Irene Adler) texted yesterday. Keep text alert on vibrate so as to not aggravate John_   _further._

Still trying to get his breathing under control, Sherlock processes the information for a few moments. He can't quite be sure why on earth he'd want to forget his life every morning. Is it really that awful?

He decides that it's probably a good idea to get up and meet this John person. Rubbing his face carefully, _faint stubble,_  he stands and enters the kitchen.

And that's where Sherlock's brain decides to fizzle out entirely.

A man is stood there, leaning on the counter while an omelette cooks on the hob. It takes all of his energy to stop himself from comparing John to the ludicrous and fastidious idea that is God, but nevertheless, this man appears to be the embodiment of almost perfection.

"Sherlock?"

Sherlock snaps back to reality.  _Used to be in the army. Strict background. Not an immediate threat. Friend. Be polite._ "Sleep well?" He feels stupid for saying it. How on earth he'd ever managed to convince John Watson that Sherlock "That Freak We All Hate" Holmes is friend material is completely beyond him.

John hums in response and focuses his attention on the microwave, giving Sherlock a chance to study him closer.

This is the fun part, he thinks, as he does every morning. Learning John Watson again and again.

_A good man, strong morals. He's with me, so he knows what I do. No, more than that, he likes to help. So he likes danger, obviously, considering he was in the army-_

The deductions come and go, all in a matter of seconds.

He thinks back to what the book said. "Should I start on the coffee?"

John looks at him, raising his eyebrow in amusement. Not angry then. "As long as you don't drug me this time."

Must be something to do with the last case. "You know my reasons." Sherlock waves it off, reaching for where he guesses the mugs are kept. He guesses correctly, thankfully. "Anything new?"

"We just had a case, Sherlock." John laughs, and Sherlock vaguely wishes he could catalogue that sound to replay later. He dismisses the notion with a thought. "If you're that desperate, you can text Lestrade. I'm sure he's had a few back burners lying around for God knows how long."

Sherlock huffs a bit on instinct. Already he can feel himself start to get bored.

His phone pings, as if it somehow sensed it.  _Switch it to vibrate._

He grabs it and opens the text.

_**Lestrade: Six dead in old flat, multiple DNA analysis identifies them all as Jacob Milner. Will you come?** _

Sherlock takes a moment to give his phone a proper look over. It's bigger than he was expecting.  _Fascinating._

He quickly types out a response and turns the volume down, almost surprised at how quickly he can figure this phone-thing out. 

_**Who's on forensics? SH** _

_**Lestrade: You know who. Anderson.** _

Something tells him that Anderson's incredibly stupid, but he can't quite pinpoint it. 

**_Be there in 5 SH_ **

"Case?" John glances at Sherlock.

Sherlock nods. "Are you coming?" He goes over to the coat peg and hastily puts a coat on.

John sniggers at little. Sherlock can't help the small bubble of rage that builds under his skin. Was that a bad question?  _Stupid stupid stupid-_

"Sherlock?"

"What?" Sherlock snaps at him.

"You're still in your pyjamas." John looks particularly pleased with himself. Scratch that, he looks smug.

He looks down at himself, and yes, John appears to be right. "Oh." He can't help the small breath of a laugh that comes out at that. Sherlock has to admit he might looks a bit foolish wandering into Scotland Yard in nothing but his PJs and a big swishy coat. He rather likes the coat, come to think of it. He briefly wonders if he has any spares.

Sherlock clears his throat. "Terrific deduction, but I was hoping you'd go deeper."

"You know you said that to me when we first met." John is smiling, and Sherlock wonders how that day might have gone absent-mindedly. "Or at least, something similar."

"The things your brain retains will forever fascinate me, John."

"You said that yesterday." John's smile gets a bit wider.

Sherlock goes off to his room without another word. The conversation was getting tedious anyway, especially considering he can't remember anything that happened yesterday.

"Did she text you again?"

Sherlock decides it's best not to answer

* * *

Scotland Yard are more stupid than he anticipates.

Lestrade - _dog lover, wife cheating on him -_  the most bearable of the lot, shows him into the room with the bodies. "Six of them, all male, varying heights and physical description," he rattles off, "all with the same identity. It's got us all stumped."

"Well yes, but that's because you're all idiots." Sherlock crouches down near one of the bodies. "Sorry, what was it you said earlier?"

Lestrade frowns. "Uh, varying heights-"

"No, before that." Sherlock huffs a bit and smells one of the corpses.

"Six, all male?"

Sherlock looks at Lestrade. "Were any of them on any kind of medication?"

"Haven't managed to do a full body autopsy yet, but there aren't any abnormalities so far." Lestrade sighs. "What can you tell us?"

"He was a druggie, he could have overdosed." Anderson - _overcompensating, former school bully, stupid-_  says, pointing to one of the bodies. "There's injection marks on his arm."  _Incredibly stupid._

"He wasn't smacking up in a drug den." Sherlock snaps, almost a bit too forcefully.

Anderson scoffs. "Of course, because you've taken enough to know the difference."

"In this case, most definitely. He wasn't doing it recreationally." Sherlock takes his phone out again, slowly but surely finding his way onto the internet, mostly down to muscle memory. "What does the profile say about him? Does it mention any former name?"

"No, why-?"

"Anderson, shut up." Sherlock looks up at John. "Well?"

"Well what?" John frowns a bit.

"You're a doctor, look over the other bodies."

"Well what about that one?" Lestrade motions to the body Sherlock is examining.

"It can't be him." Sherlock stands and is ready to move onto the others, before John interrupts his train of thought.

"Why can't it?" It's not rude - it's genuine and curious and for a second, Sherlock wants to smile.

"This man is transgender. See the acne on his face, the lack of facial hair while there being no sign he recently shaved, he's obviously lost quite a lot of weight recently; all of which are natural side effects of regular testosterone injections, the fact he's never had a former name just proves it further. Which is why if you lift up his shirt..." He pulls the shirt up, and sure enough, there are two scars underneath where the victim's breast tissue would have been. "It's colloquially called top surgery."

"Fantastic." John says it quietly with a bit of awe. It makes Sherlock's chest feel uncomfortably tight.

"Then what does that have to do with recreational drugs?" Anderson pipes up.

"Absolutely nothing. That's why you're an idiot." Sherlock looks down at the next body.

"But _you_ said you'd have experience with it before." Anderson stares at him in disbelief.

"Exactly." Sherlock looks back up at Anderson, daring him to say anything else. Luckily for him, Anderson decides to stay silent.

John coughs to get everyone's attention. "Uh, late thirties, no real evidence of consumption-"

"Not him."

They don't even bother to ask this time, probably feeling too awkward about the new information they just uncovered. It annoys Sherlock to no end.

He continues rattling off more deductions, feeling an urge to get out of there as soon as possible before any kind of taunting starts, and within minutes he's leaving the crime scene with John close behind.

* * *

The taxi ride is tense, to say the least. John keeps clearing his throat like he's about to say something, but then changes his mind at the last second. The whole predicament is putting Sherlock on edge; he's even tapping his leg rhythmically to relieve his stress levels.

After a minute, it simply gets too much. "Say it?"

"What?" John turns his head to Sherlock, looking a little dazed.

"Whatever it is, just say it." His tone is clipped.

John sighs. "Sherlock, you know that all of us, Mrs Hudson, Lestrade... We all still care about you."

"What's that got to do with any of this?" Sherlock frowns at him.

"I'm just saying... It's fine, all of it, even if you're-"

"If I'm what?" The conversation is just making Sherlock feel more tense.

A flash of hurt passes over John's face. Sherlock kind of regrets snapping at him now. "I just wanted to make sure you knew that it's alright. All of it."

Sherlock feels goosebumps race across his skin, his heart figuratively swelling to twice its usual size. He gets that clench in his stomach again and Sherlock wonders if there's some medical solution to it.

He's not done, apparently. "I love you, Sherlock, I just want to you know that."

"You might want to shut up now, John." He didn't mean it to come across so harshly, he really,  _really_ didn't, but everything just feels so overwhelming and intense and Sherlock just wants to lean over and kiss him.

And isn't that a thought.

Regardless, the feeling of regret he gets just after he says it takes over entirely, especially when John's face closes off again. He wants John to understand.  _Please understand. I don't know what I'm doing here._

John, however, has turned to look out the window, his lips pressed in a firm line.

Sherlock starts to understand why he didn't want his memory back.


	2. Deafening

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you like it! (At least a little bit) <3

The realisation that he's in love with John Watson hits him almost every day.

It's... _weird,_  for starters. His body reacts in all the usual ways -  _quickened pulse, tight chest, higher pitch of voice, wanting to impress constantly._ The list goes on.

The point is, Sherlock knows bloody well what he's experiencing is infatuation. Feels it, even, as much as he hates to admit it. He'd be a fool to say otherwise. But his brain hasn't quite caught up with the idea.

It's maddening. Yesterday he was doing a course paper for his Chemistry degree. Today he's solving crimes with an ex-army doctor.

Sherlock meets John again the next morning. He supposes that he needs to start saying "again", if he isn't already saying it, that is, and maybe he used to say it at one point but stopped and now he's started saying it again inexplicably.

Amnesia can be confusing.

John is decidedly quiet that day, regardless of what Sherlock tries to do to coax him out of it. Honestly, how is he expected to know what to? He's suddenly missed half of his life.

Again.

He's sat in his chair, typing up his blog while Sherlock composes. Or rewrites. Or something. John doesn't seem to mind it, anyway.

His phone rings in his pocket.  _Mycroft. Who else?_

He puts the violin down and holds the phone up to his ear. "What do you want?"

"Just checking in." Mycroft's smile can be heard in his tone of voice. It's annoying.

Sherlock sighs. "You never just 'check in'. What is it?"

There's a small pause. "How would you know?"

Silence. Sherlock feels a pang in his chest.

"As a matter of fact, I do have a reason to call. Are you taking that medication I prescribed to you?"

Sherlock's voice gets quieter. "You can't prescribe me anything," Sherlock notices John's ears prick up, but he ignores it, "you're not a damn doctor."

"And how is your 'damn doctor' doing?" Mycroft smirks and Sherlock wants to kill him for it.

Sherlock goes over to the desk and rummages through a few wads of paper. He can't be sure whether John can hear Mycroft's end of the conversation or not. "You didn't call me to talk about John. What do you want?"

Mycroft takes a deep sigh that's all too familiar to Sherlock: the I'm-Smarter-Than-You-Just-Listen sigh. "We have the most brilliant brain surgeons in the country on hand, Sherlock, why on earth do you insist on continuing with this?  _It's gone too far._ "

"Mycroft, you know my reasoning perfectly well. I don't have to-"

"Pass the phone over, Sherlock."

"Why?"

"Because I told you to."

"Why?"

"For God's sake, Sherlock, stop it-"

"Why?"

"Sherlock!"

"What?"

"Stop being such a child about this. Grow up." Mycroft purses his lips; Sherlock can tell.

"If you hadn't noticed, Mycroft, I am a child, remember?" He mumbles the next bit. "Seeing as though you have that luxury."

Another sigh. A speech is coming. "Have you tried the memory method I mentioned?"

"Can't remember."

"Don't be obtuse. You wrote it down. The Mind Palace."

Sherlock shrugs, before remembering that Mycroft can't see him. "It won't work."

There's another silence. "It's a virtual place in the mind that contains the items you want to remember arranged in a sequential order. For example, if you were wanting to remember a... green towel, perhaps and say, a candle, the name of a certain doctor, a paperclip, an old phone number, the name of an obscure French town; you would create a story that links these items together, while making sure to add as much detail as possible. There a number of ways to accomplish it, should you set your mind to it-"

"Are you nearly done?" Sherlock holds back a groan.

"-via adding color to the images in your mind, scents, an wind coming from the east, taste, anything. These act as sort of mental cues that can help to pull up information should you find it hard to remember these things. You might find it useful to choose locations that mean something to you when you’re building it up; you said London would be a good choice the last time we spoke about it."

"How many times have you recited that spiel?" Sherlock snarks.

Mycroft hesitates for a moment. It seems like he's going to snap at Sherlock. "...Be good, won't you?"

"Please." Sherlock hangs up rather abruptly, already sick to death of his rambling. Mycroft hasn't changed then. Seems like 15 years hasn't made him age a day. Emotionally, at least.

John has that face on when he's on the verge of saying something. "So... What was that?"

"Hmm?" Sherlock glances up at John, still going through the papers.

"That." He motions to the phone, huffing a small laugh. "...It's funny."

"What is?" Sherlock tries to play it off like he's barely listening, when he's actually hanging off John's every word.

"Seeing you so... Human, I guess. Bickering with your sibling." John pushes himself to his feet, setting the laptop down on the table.

Sherlock looks up at him. "I suppose you have a lot of experience with that."  _Brother. Harry Watson, going by the phone. Alcoholic._

John glares at him a bit. "Yes, well. Obviously."

"Obviously."

For a moment, neither of them speak. The air hangs thick between them, so much so that breathing becomes almost impossible. John's eyes flick down to his lips, and Sherlock swallows the lump in his throat at the motion.  _Body chemistry,_ he reminds himself,  _natural responses. Nothing you can do about it._

The moment passes, and John is going into the kitchen. "Tea?"

He makes a small noise of agreement and picks up his violin again, plucking one of the strings out of habit before he starts playing.  _Bach, Chaconne_

He plays until his fingers ache and his tea has gathered a layer of dust over the top.

* * *

_It's called Anterograde Amnesia._

Sherlock looks around, subtly checking that John won't interupt him unexpectedly. A breath. He's safe.

_An inability to learn new information. It seems to be triggered by sleep. When on a case, it's important to avoid sleep persistently. Even if John tells you otherwise._

"Sherlock?"

Sherlock quickly stuffs the book under his bed cover. "Yes?"

Mrs Hudson comes inside. "How's your head, dear?"

Sherlock doesn't quite know how to respond to that, so he settles with "fine."

"I just thought I ought to let you know that-"

"-you have a man coming over to redo the paintwork in your flat, so I should avoid wandering around naked when possible?" Sherlock buts in.

Mrs Hudson gives him a half-annoyed look. "Honestly, what's the point of me even talking?"

Sherlock suddenly remembers the book.  _Make sure you treat her with respect and decency, as it is the least she deserves._ "Would you like me to do it instead? I've been doing a study on different paints and their reactions with certain acidities of wallpaper."

"Would you?" Mrs Hudson's smile is soft.

"Of course."  _Protect this woman at all costs, Sherlock Holmes._ The thought comes so naturally that it almost startles him.

"Oh, I should probably let you know that your brother tried to kidnap me last night."

"Tried?"  _Mycroft is a dead man._

"One of his minions is at the bottom of the stairs. Unconscious, mind you. Didn't want to give you a fright if you decided to leave the house." She pats Sherlock's cheek fondly. "Shall I make you a cuppa, then you can start on the wallpaper?"

"Y-yes, that would be... Good." Maybe he judged Mrs Hudson a bit too quickly. John, Lestrade, and Molly are all predictable - Mrs Hudson will forever surprise him.

* * *

The case is tricky, which Sherlock likes. An art connoisseur, six dead prostitutes, a clown car, and the witnesses either deaf or blind or both.

It feels like _Christmas._

What doesn't feel so good, however, is the elbow he gets in the chest as the obvious killer tries to make his escape, clashes again with his right leg, and has Sherlock falling to the ground with a hard crack. The pain is almost blinding, but it's surprising how adrenaline can have such an alarming hold on his body. Certainly enough that it can make him get back on his feet in a matter of seconds, charging after the killer at full pelt, mere metres behind John. He soon catches up, but the killer is fast, almost too fast.

Something doesn't add up.

Sherlock deduced from the start that thing man did at least some training in running, but this? This was almost professional level. He should have seen it coming, should have  _known_ and now more people are going to die because of Sherlock's mistake.

He's dashed around a corner and out of sight in moments.

"And he's gone." John bends over and pants, trying to catch his breath back.

Sherlock paces madly, trying to think, think, just  _focus._ "For God's sake!"

John doesn't look up at him, clearly thinking the same thing. Maybe that mind palace thing might be a good idea after all; it might be useful to have a map of London in the back of his head whenever he wants.

The pain quickly returns. His head spins and his eyes unfocus, the ground shakey and growing closer to his face. The crash to the ground is unceremonious, and before he can stop it from doing so, the world fades into black.


	3. Intertwining

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little shorter than the others, but I hope you like it!

John can't stop pacing.

His steps are slow and calculated, like the slightest stumble could ruin his mental state forever. He can scarcely remember a time in his life where he's been this terrified.

The heart monitor strapped to Sherlock beeps duly in the background, and John knows that that's a good thing, but the heart pounding in his ears suggests otherwise. If Sherlock were awake, he'd probably tell John to get a grip and stop letting sentiment cloud his judgement.

Well, if Sherlock wants John to listen to him so badly, then he better wake up bloody soon.

The monitor picks up a bit, as if hearing John's inner turmoil.

"Sherlock?" John sits on the side of the bed cautiously.

Sherlock doesn't say anything for a few moments. He opens his mouth, closes it, thinks for a moment, and opens it again, jaw slack even though his eyes are wild. "Why aren't you in uniform?"

John blinks at him. "What?"

"I don't mean your army uniform, obviously. You're a doctor." He touches his throat absently, obviously thinking of something other than John. "Where was it by the way, Afghanistan? It was a few years ago, but I'm sure you can manage thinking that far back."

 _Oh. Temporary amnesia._ John huffs in relief. Nothing that shouldn't wear off in a couple of weeks. "What's the last thing you remember?"

Sherlock runs a hand down his chest with a frown. "I was at uni. Why aren't you reacting?" He glances up at John's face, giving him a small smile, the kind he usually gives to witnesses at crime scenes. It makes the cavity in John's chest ache.

John licks his lips - nervous habit. "Right, okay. Mycroft'll be here soon. He might look a bit... different. Especially if the last thing you remember is uni, _Jesus._  " He gets up and brushes off the imaginary dirt from his legs, his mouth pressed into a firm line.

Sherlock frowns a bit. "You're upset."

"A bit, yeah." John laughs; it's a little bitter.

"You didn't answer my question." Sherlock tries to sit up more, but he winces before he can get too far.

"What question?"

"Well, most people don't _usually_ like it when I..." Sherlock trails off a bit. He looks  _nervous,_ for Christ sake. He didn't know Sherlock could get nervous, to be honest. John gives him a smile despite himself.

The loud footsteps in the doorway stop him before he can answer.

"Ah, brother mine." Mycroft is leaning on the doorway, looking down at his umbrella. "I trust you're feeling better."

"You got old." Sherlock says matter-of-factly, and John can't help but laugh.

"Well noticed." Mycroft sneers a little. "Your skills at deduction are forever improving."

"Certainly better than yours." John mumbles with a smile. It makes Sherlock snigger.

Mycroft looks at the ceiling, as if he's asking God Himself what on earth he did to deserve this, then back to the two of them. "Doctor Watson, if I could have a word." He motions to the door.

Something tells John that talking right now is a _very_ bad idea. "Who'll keep an eye on Sherlock?"

"Who says I want to be 'kept an eye on'?" Sherlock counters, his mouth forming a small pout. He's probably going to stay in that sulk for the rest of the day.

John stands up straighter, old army instincts kicking in. "Fine." He says it coolly, even if his throat feels tight, and makes his way out the room, Mycroft close behind.

The second the door clicks shut, Mycroft starts speaking. "How is he?"

John looks at him. "He's fine, er... Bit of... temporary amnesia, but nothing permanent, why?"

Mycroft gives him an almost pitiful look. "You haven't figured it out, have you?"

"Well no offence, but that's not really what I'm here for." John glares. "Figured what out?"

"The amnesia is permanent."

Mycroft looks like he's about to say something else, but John interrupts. "Oh, and I suppose you can tell that from the sole of his shoe, right? Or the way his hair's styled?"

Mycroft sighs. "John-"

"No, don't tell me. I'm an imbecile, right?" His face feels hot at the look Mycroft gives him.

"He's had amnesia for the last 17 years, long before you or anyone but I even got the chance to know him." Mycroft says with a hint of exasperation. 

A beat.

"You're joking."

Another beat.

"You must be."

Mycroft still won't speak, like the way John's acting is  _irrational,_ of all things.

The thought makes John angrier. "Tell me you're lying, hm? Tell me and I might refrain from hitting you." He can barely contain the desperation in his voice.

Finally, Mycroft says something. "I should be getting back to the office. Duty calls."

"Nope." John gives him a disbelieving look. "No, you're not. You're going to stand there and tell me exactly how his amnesia manifested."

Another pitiful look. "I'm afraid that that's not in anyone's best interest."

"You mean it's not in  _your_ best interest." John breathes carefully, trying to get himself back under control. It doesn't work. "No, y'now what? Leave. If work's so bloody important."

John's expecting some kind of snide remark. He's expecting an outburst. He's expecting a bitter comment, or a smile that calls him an idiot.

He doesn't expect Mycroft to just do as he's told. He doesn't expect him to just walk out without so much as a look.

Well screw Mycroft. He can leave the country for all John cares.

* * *

John doesn't want to think about it like he's grieving, but the analogy is the only thing convincing him that he's sane. Denial comes first, then anger, then bargaining, then depression, then acceptance.

John feels as if he's stuck in a loop. A broken record.

Getting back to Baker Street is odd. John stares at him whenever he thinks Sherlock won't notice. Which was hopeless to begin with, honestly.

Sherlock stares around the flat in wonder, and John's stomach plummets, however much he tries to ignore it.

"Tea?" John bustles himself into the kitchen, barely hearing Sherlock's hum of agreement.

"I'd prefer coffee. Black-"

"-two sugars, yes, I know." John laughs a bit. "Of course you remember how you have your _coffee_."

"You hardly need to be jealous of a cup of coffee. I'm sure you'll prove yourself to be far more useful." Sherlock snorts and flops down onto his chair.

"Not if you forget every time you fall asleep, you prat. Caffeine'll do you wonders." John fetches the milk from the fridge, refusing to meet Sherlock's gaze.

That's the way John's planning on dealing with it. Ignoring the problem completely.  _Denial._

Sherlock looks at John for a moment. "You're angry at me for something I don't remember."

John doesn't grace that with a response.

Sherlock looks down at his violin, a little lost in thought. "What do you want me to say?"

"What do you _normally_ say in these situations?" John knows he's being unfair, but for God's sake, right now he's allowed to be.

"Are we really doing this?" Sherlock gives him an incredulous look. "Just how long are you planning on avoiding the issue?"

"However long I bloody-well like." John's voice is a lot louder than he meant it to be. _Anger._ "And you don't get a say in that."

There's a moment when Sherlock doesn't quite know what to say. John would laugh if he didn't feel so close to breaking.

So John keeps talking. "One word, Sherlock. That's all I would have needed. One word." He's clutching the edge of the table, his knuckles white and fingertips close to bruising. At least it feels that way. "Just... Anything, Sherlock, do you remember anything about me?"

Sherlock takes a breath. "I know you're a retired army doctor, addicted to danger with an alcoholic brother-"

"No, you're deducing me." John wants to scream at him, wants to hit something, wants to beg and plead with him to remember _something_. Instead, he pushes himself up and goes over to Sherlock's chair, making sure he doesn't miss a God damn thing. 

Sherlock's breathing shifts. "I don't-"

"What's my middle name, Sherlock?"  _Bargaining._

He blinks at John. "Why-?"

"Because I refuse to believe my best friend is a 19 year old trapped in the body of a man in his mid-thirties. My middle name. Now." 

More blinking. John seriously considers punching him. "I... I think I'm starting to understand why I never told you." Sherlock says it quietly, like he's not aware that he said it out loud.

The anger in John dies in an instant. He's suddenly hit with an overwhelming amount of regret and shame that he doesn't quite know what to do with. They're meant to be friends and oh God, no _wonder_ Sherlock kept his mouth shut for so long, if John doesn't even have the decency to help him through it. And Sherlock knew that from the beginning, didn't he?

It's agony looking at Sherlock, but John can't tear his eyes away. Something feels wrong. "I'm sorry."

"Don't be." Sherlock has gone very quiet too. The silence is maddening.

_Depression._

John shakes his head and clears his throat. "Your testosterone injections, do you need to take one now?"

Sherlock nods slightly.

John goes into Sherlock's room, passing the forgotten coffee that's going cold on the desktop.

_Denial._

The cycle looks as if it's never going to stop.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I swear, the more ideas I come up with for this, the darker it gets.
> 
> Edit: I thought I might as well make it clear here - I'm not going to be continuing this.
> 
> There are several reasons for this, and to be perfectly honest, the thought of listing out every single reason why I think BBC Sherlock is trash sounds painful and adds far too much negativity to something that, for a long time, I enjoyed, wrote theories about, and loved dearly.
> 
> So I'm orphaning this work. If anyone else wants to continue this, be my guest. Love the things you love. Go nuts. Or if you simply don't care, which is also good. Continue on with your life, good citizen! But I won't be continuing this whatsoever, and I don't plan on writing Sherlock fan fiction in the future.
> 
> If anyone is at all curious as to why I'm renouncing BBC Sherlock fan fiction entirely, I invite you to check out this video: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LkoGBOs5ecM&t=2476s  
> I don't 100% agree with the points he makes, but it gives quite a good summary with some really insightful points about the series as a whole. Warnings for profanity, though.
> 
> Have a good day, random stranger!
> 
> -TheLollipopKing (Maddy)


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